Dragonborn Reflection
by Reviewer543
Summary: My little oneshot at my personal Dragonborn and how he finds himself at the end of his journey.


_**Okay, this has actually been sitting in my mind for over a year and I just want to write it out as a small oneshot. If I get serious into turning it into another story, it won't be till I have a free hand and the time to go along with it.**_

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At the Summit of the Throat of the World, there stood a man looking out to the far edges of Skyrim. He wore archaic looking robes that were the color of dark grey with the boots to match. The hood of the robes was pulled over his head obscuring his visage from others. Even if they were to go around him to see his face they would be disappointed for he wore a gold mask with gold tusks with slits for the eyeholes. Where the mouth should be was instead writing. In an ancient tongue that few could pronounce, and even fewer could read, were 12 names.

 _Hevnoraak_ : The _brutal_ priest who was resistant to most poisons and disease.

 _Krosis_ : The priest of _sorrow_ who was an adept of Alchemy, Archery and Lock-Picking.

 _Morokei_ : The _glorious_ priest whose magic could come back after several high-level magic attacks.

 _Nahkriin_ : The priest of _vengeance_ whose magicka was so strong, and a master of both the Destruction and Restoration schools of magic.

 _Otar_ : The priest who proved himself capable of resisting the powers of fire, frost, and shock.

 _Rahgot_ : The priest of _anger_ whose stamina was so great, he was capable of using incredible physical attacks in succession.

 _Vokun:_ The priest of _shadow_ who was adept in the Conjuration, Illusion, and Alteration schools.

 _Volsung:_ The priest of _horror._ Those who attempted to crush him found that he was stronger than he seemed. Those who attempted to con him found themselves being conned. And those who tried to drown him found that he couldn't be drowned.

 _Ahzidal:_ The _Embittered Destroyer_. A master a flames whose power over it few could match.

 _Dukaan:_ The priest of _dishonor_. A master of frost who stood side by side with Ahzidal.

 _Zahkriisos:_ The _Bloody Sword_. A master of shock who joined with Ahzidal and Dukaan.

 _Miraak:_ The _Allegiance-Guide,_ Usurper, killer of dragons, and would-be ruler of the world. A priest whose potent magic compelled Ahzidal, Dukaan, Zahkriisos to follow him.

The robed man looked down at his hands. His old, calloused, slightly tan skinned hands. How many lives had been ended with these hands? How many lives had been saved with these hands? How many spells had he casted with these hands? How many things crafted? How many arrows and bolts fired? How many strikes with a blade performed? His gaze focused on his finger nails which were starting to grow into claws. Old eyes narrowed behind the mask. His claws, and several abilities of his, would be a constant reminder of what happened to him. What was done to him. By those despicable Thalmor!

All those innocent lives ended just for more power? In the end it came to be the Thalmor's ruin instead. He alone survived. Miraculous really since he was a boy of... of... how old had he been when it happened? He had walked this world for 300 years so it is somewhat difficult to remember. After a minute it finally came to him. He had been seven when they had taken him. He was the youngest among the prisoners at that island keep of theirs. His gaze went from his hands to the far east horizon in remembrance before traveling south. He could just barely see Riften, his old hometown.

He had been an orphan, not because his parents died or had given him away, but because he had been abandoned. He'd never met his mother and father and to be perfectly honest he didn't really care to. Not that they'd be alive right now anyway with him being around 300 or 310 unless they became vampires or were incredibly strong with magic. He'd long since let that rest though. He had done great work in his life. And people always seemed to use a title instead of his actual name save for those closest to him because of it.

Orphan/Child

Thief

Warrior

Mage

Bard

Prisoner

Thane

Whelp

New-blood

Assassin

Companion

Listener

Guild-Master

Harbinger

Archmage

Champion

High-King

Emperor

Savior

Brother

Husband

Father

 **Dragonborn**

Those last three struck him to his core still to this day, bringing his old lips to twitch into a smile. He still looked back on those years most days. His right hand found its way towards the necklace he was wearing and he gripped it lightly. It was made of silver, his favorite metal, and on it was a circular pendant holding the symbols of the Eight Divines that were on the outer edges of it. The funny thing was that they were all hidden under a flawless gem with a color that he thought would correspond to them. And at the dead center of his necklace was a flawless sapphire gem hiding the symbol of the Ninth Divine, Talos. Talos worship wasn't outlawed anymore but he had created this necklace of his in a time when it was and he couldn't bring himself to make a different one even if he wanted one. It had been a dangerous gamble since the Thalmor were aiming at everyone who wasn't part of their Aldmerri Dominion.

He looked out to the other holds, lost in his memories. He held a house in each hold, but none had really been he and his family's true home, but they made for a nice place to stay when he was out on business and brought his family with him. His wife, Arkay rest her soul, had convinced him to take her and the children with him since their main home was a great deal away from most civilization. And he agreed that the children needed to have friends outside of themselves and their house.

His house had been made in a secret location away from the rest of Skyrim. It provided a means of privacy and later, safety for his family. What's more was that he built it with his own two hands too. It had certainly been different from all the other model houses he had made but it was perfect in his eyes. It was a combination of all of the houses he could make. It had an entry hall, a main hall which he made sure had a cellar, an east wing, north wing and west wing. The east wing had consisted of a kitchen, armory and a library. The west wing consisted of a greenhouse, spare bedrooms, and an enchanter's tower. His north wing had consisted of a trophy room, a storage room and an alchemy laboratory. He had to keep that last one, the cellar and the greenhouse locked most days since the kids could get hurt by going in there by ingesting something they weren't supposed to or by touching the forge he kept in the cellar.

The exterior of the house had the usual things: a garden, an animal pen, a stable, a smelter, a grindstone and a workbench. He added some special things too. The apiary for bees and honey, a fish hatchery and a grain mill. He even got some animals like a horse, a cow, and three chickens. The kids loved the Homestead since it was the most unique place they could be at.

He and his wife loved their children very much. All seven of them. Yeah, four were adopted but the last three were his and his wife's by blood, not that that really mattered to them. His smile grew wider at the memories consisting of family dinners, celebrations, parties and weddings he eventually went to. He thought of his grandchildren, and then his great-grandchildren. His smile lessened when he remembered that his family, while having grown into a small army by now, that they've branched out and rarely talk to each other anymore. Yes, some still get together and he does come and check on each of them, but there hasn't been a mass gathering since a good hundred years ago, when his wife passed away.

His smile was gone at thinking of her passing. All of their family came for the wake and the funeral. A number of four hundred or so people for one funeral was pretty big but greatly appreciated. After her death, he had spent the next decade wandering around until he found himself back in Skyrim. Back to where it all began. He had walked up the familiar paths of the Throat of the World until he came to the old monastery of High Hrothgar. The robed man looked up to the sky, seeing the weaving colors of the aurora borealis that illuminated the darkened sky above. His thoughts turned to his life before his family and the events that carried him to them.

The Thalmor's Forbidden Experiments

The Thieves' Guild

His trip around Skyrim's Holds

The College of Winterhold

The Bards' College

The Skyrim Civil War

The Dragon Crisis

The Dawnguard

Solstheim and Apocrypha

The Second Great War

The Reunification of Tamriel

All of this and more went through his head as he set himself down as wind and snow blew around him. The cold didn't bother him much since the blood in his veins was of the Nords, among others. And so, at the twilight of his years, Herus Stormblade, the Last Dragonborn, sat at the Throat of the World reflecting on his life, and the choices, events and people that shaped it.

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 _ **Please post a review and tell me your thoughts. Or don't. Whichever one. For those of you who wondering about GotT don't worry, I'm just finishing the chapter. I think you'll like it. As usual, thank you for reading.**_


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